Fringilla: Some Tales In Verse

By R.D. Blackmore

"Fringilla: Some Tales In Verse" by R. D. Blackmore. Published by Good Press. Good Press publishes a wide range of titles that encompasses every genre. From well-known classics & literary fiction and non-fiction to forgotten−or yet undiscovered gems−of world literature, we issue the books that need to be read. Each Good Press edition has been meticulously edited and formatted to boost readability for all e-readers and devices. Our goal is to produce eBooks that are user-friendly and accessible to everyone in a high-quality digital format.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Good Press
• Release date: Dec 4, 2019
• ISBN: 4057664583871

R.D. Blackmore

An Adams Media author.

Book preview

R. D. Blackmore

Fringilla: Some Tales In Verse

Published by Good Press, 2022

[e-mail]

EAN 4057664583871

Table of Contents

TO MY PEN

LITA OF THE NILE

A TALE IN THREE PARTS

KADISHA; OR, THE FIRST JEALOUSY

AN EASTERN LEGEND

MOUNT ARAFA

IN TWO PARTS

THE WELL OF SAINT JOHN

PAUSIAS AND GLYCERA; OR, THE FIRST FLOWER-PAINTER

A STORY IN THREE SCENES

BUSCOMBE; OR, A MICHAELMAS GOOSE

TO FAME

NOTE

With kind consent of Messrs. Harper, Buscombe returns in altered form from the other side of the ocean. Two other little tales appeared of old, but nobody would look at them, and now they are offered after careful trimming.

Standing afar. I gaze with doubt at other trimmings which are not mine. They have conquered the taste of the day perhaps, and high art announces them as her last transfiguration. Moreover they are highly recommended— as the purest art not always is—by the modesty of the artist.

The cover design, borders, initial letters and the whole of the full-page illustrations—with the exception of the three to 'Pausias and Glycera' by James W. R. Linton—are by Louis Fairfax-Muckley.

017.

TO MY PEN

Table of Contents

I

Thou feeble implement of mind,

Wherewith she strove to scrawl her

name;

But, like a mitcher, left behind

No signature, no stroke, no claim,

No hint that she hath pined—

Shall ever come a stronger time,

When thou shalt be a tool of skill,

And steadfast purpose, to fulfil

A higher task than rhyme?

II

Thou puny instrument of soul,

Wherewith she labours to impart

Her efforts at some arduous goal;

But fails to bring thy coarser art

Beneath a fine control—

Shall ever come a fairer day,

When thou shalt be a buoyant plume,

To soar, where clearer suns illume,

And fresher breezes play?

020.023.

Thou weak interpreter of heart,

So impotent to tell the tale

Of love's delight, of envy's smart,

Of passion, and ambition's bale,

Of pride that dwells apart—

Shall I, in length of time, attain

(By walking in the human ways,

With love of Him, who made and sways)

To ply thee, less in vain?

If so, thou shalt be more to me

Than sword, or sceptre, flag, or crown;

With mind, and soul, and heart in thee,

Despising gold, and sham renown;

But truthful, kind, and free—

Then come; though now a pithless quill,

Uncouth, unfledged, indefinite,—

In time, thou shalt be taught to write,

By patience, and good-will.

---

LITA OF THE NILE

Table of Contents

A TALE IN THREE PARTS

Table of Contents

PART I

I

"KING, and Father, gift and giver,

God revealed in form of river,

Issuing perfect, and sublime,

From the fountain-head of time;

"Whom eternal mystery shroudeth,

Unapproached, untracked, unknown;

Whom the Lord of heaven encloudeth

With the curtains of His throne;

"From the throne of heaven descending,

Glory, power, and goodness blending,

Grant us, ere the daylight dies,

Token of thy rapid rise,"

II

Ha, it cometh! Furrowing, flashing,

Red blood rushing o'er brown breast;

Peaks, and ridges, and domes, dashing

Foam on foam, and crest on crest!

'Tis the signal Thebes hath waited,

Libyan Thebes, the hundred-gated:

Rouse, and robe thee, River-priest

For thy dedication feast!

Follows him the loveliest maiden,

Afric's thousand hills can show;

White apparel'd, flower-laden,

With the lotus on her brow.

III

Votive maid, who hath espousal

Of the river's high carousal;

Twenty cubits if he rise,

This shall be his bridal prize.

Calm, and meek of face and carriage,

Deigning scarce a quicker breath,

Comes she to the funeral marriage,

The betrothal of black death.

Rosy hands, and hennaed fingers,

Nails whereon the onyx lingers,

Clasped, as at a lover's tale,

In the bosom's marble vale.

IV

Silvery scarf, her waist enwreathing,

Wafts a soft Sabaean balm;

Like a cloud of incense, breathing

Round the column of a palm:

Snood of lilies interweaveth

(Giving less than it receiveth)

Beauty of her clustered brow,

Calmly bent upon us now.

Through her dark hair, spread before

See the western glory wane,

As in groves of dim Cytorus,

Or the bowers of Taprobane!

V

See, the large eyes, lit by heaven,

Brighter than the Sisters Seven,

(Like a star the storm hath cowed)

Sink their flash in sorrow's cloud.

There the crystal tear refraineth,

And the founts of grief are dry;

"Father, Mother—none remaineth;

All are